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(gnmnik  from  tip  Btmft  at  iljat  piotim  hanft 


®Jj?  l«0t  of  3xma  Gfanm 

Dedicated  to  tlie  Calamity  Howler 


19oc 

MA 


IT    D.    WOOSTER    TAYLOR 


HETHER  you  ride  on  a  Union  Bus 
Or  sit  in  a  streetcar  sea*-. 
Whether  you  argue   and  fuss  and  cuss 
And  bet  that  Calhoun  gets  beat, 
Or  whether  you  walk  and  fume  and  talk 
And  hope  that  they  both  go  down, 
Remember  the  dust  that  youVe  kicked  and  cussed 
Is  the  dust  of  Frisco  Town. 

The   dust    of   Frisco   Town,  say.  man, 

Do   you   know   what   that   dust   is   worth? 

It's  full  of  the  life  and  soul  and  sand 

Of  the   Best   Little   Town   on   Earth. 

It's  full  of  the  blood  and  bone  and  brick 

Of  the  men  who  stood  staunch  in  her  fall; 

And  despite  every  kick,  that  courage  will  stick, 

For  there's  grit  in  that  dust,  that's  all. 

So  whether  you  wander  along  Van  Ness 

And  listen  to  tales  of  woe, 

Or  shuffle  your  feet  up  Fillmore  Street 

And  grumble  that  times  are  slow, 

Or  whether   you  wait  on  Golden  Gate 

For  an  auto  to  take  you  down, 

Just  get  this  fact  straight  before  it's  too  late, 

That  you're   on  the  bum,  not  the  town. 

You're   the   curse   of  Frisco   Town,  my  man. 

Do  you  know  what  a  pessimist's  worth? 

He's  full  of  the  slush  and  milk  and  mush 

Of  the  laziest  man  on  earth. 

Get  busy  and  work  and  walk  and  sweat, 

Don't  whimper  and  fume  and  frown; 

Union  man,  scab  or  Greek,  you  can  get  what  you  seek 

In  the  dust  of  Frisco  Town. 

So    whether  you  swing  on  a  wind-blown  beam, 

With   the   smart   of   the   dust   in   your   eyes, 

Where  the  piledrivers  steam,  and  the  hoist-engines  scream 

And  the   derricks  sweep  up  to   the  skies; 

Or  whether  you  crawl   on  the  tottering  wall 

Of  a  building  that's  blistered  and  brown, 

Swear  some  if  you  must,  but  don't  give  up  your  trust 

In  the  dust  of  Frisco  Town. 

The  dust  of  Frisco  Town,  say  man 

Do    you    know    how    that    dust    was    made? 

It  was  ground  from  the  sand  of  that  pioneer  band 

Whose   memory   never    will   fade. 

It  is  made   frcm  the   pluck  and   the   dare-devil  luck 

Of  those   Argonaut  miners  of  old. 

So  don't  cry  till  you're  hurt,  it's  no  every-day  dirt, 

It's  dust — but  it's  dust  of  gold. 


COPYtlGHTfD   S»    0     W     TAYLOR 


PUBllfHeO  BY  PAUL  ELDER  »  COMPANY 


r%    «  i'Ti  .<  «o  O 


SYRACUSE,  -  MY. 

PAT.  JAN.  21,  I90S 


wBSm 


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